


September, 1862

by crossingwinter



Series: ASOIAF Drabbles & Ficlets [14]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Civil War, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the letter comes, it is not in his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	September, 1862

When the letter comes, it is not in his hand.  The letters are tight and neat, not his usual swirling script and Cersei’s heart stops—actually stops—and her hands tremble as she breaks the seal on the envelope.

 _My dearest sister,_ the letter reads in the same tight hand,  _no doubt this letter will cause you fear but I can assure you, I am alive and safe, if not whole.  The Yankees shot off my hand at Antietam, and I can no more write than hold a gun._

The letter shakes in Cersei’s hand and her breath comes shallow, and for a moment she thinks she might faint, and she wished that she’d not had Maisy pull her corset so tight that morning.  She’d wanted to wear her green dress—the one that Jaime had gotten for her before Tommen had been born, but they’d needed to tug her stays far tighter than they usually did to get her into the bodice.  Maisy had said it must have shrunk in washing, and Cersei was sure she would have all of them whipped for ruining her dress.  Not quite ruined, but ruined enough, if she could barely breathe.  She sat down and went back to the letter, rereading the words.

_The Yankees shot off my hand at Antietam, and I can no more write than hold a gun.  General Lee makes talk of sending me home to recover, and I dream of seeing your face and your children once more._

_Her_  children.  Hers.  As though they weren’t his as well—now more than ever with Robert dead at Manassas.  He’d only ever called them her children.  He had wanted to call them his—once, when he’d ridden home with the news that Robert had been brought down by a cannon.  They’d gone walking along the fields until they’d reached the woods and he’d found a tree to press her against, his hand against the soft flesh between her legs—his hand  _The Yankees shot off my hand at Antietam, and I can no more write than hold a gun.  General Lee makes talk of sending me home to recover, and I dream of seeing your face and your children once more._ _  
_

_They say that the Yankees had a photographer at Antietam, taking pictures of the bodies and the blood.  Maybe he’ll find my hand and we’ll be able to buy the picture when all this is over_.

A  _picture_.  Jaime would joke about something like this—would make it a horrible horrible joke.  It wasn’t funny—surely he must see it wasn’t funny.  Surely he must know that nothing would be the same now.  She thought of Jaime, his hand gone, smiling at her, trying to reach for her to kiss her but missing and brushing her cheek with the stump and she shuddered.  

 _I’ve had no word from Father, or from Tyrion,_ the little traitor, running North.  Good riddance too,  _since I have been maimed, and I hope you will pass on the news on my behalf.  I do not like making Brienne write my letters for me, though she says she does not mind it._

What would Father say when he heard?  He wanted his son to be a hero of war, the one who brought Lincoln down with his own two…with his own hands if he could.  And now—now Jaime was maimed, and Jaime would never be able to hold her quite the same way, his hands running through her curls as he told her he would kill Robert if he struck her again.  She supposed it was better than him dying in the mud like Robert.  What would Father say?  One son turned traitor and helping the Northerners, while the other was a ruin of the war?  And only Cersei…only Cersei, hale and whole…

Would she go home now?  Would Robert’s brothers come and try and oust her from Storm’s End?  It was Joff’s now—legally.  She’d read the will.  No matter if Stannis got one of his fancy lawyers from Harvard to check every word of that will, it was  _Joff’s_  now, and they couldn’t make him leave, make her leave.  Not unless…not unless the Yanks pushed South, breached the lines to the West and up in Virginia.  Then…

_I miss you terribly, more than you’ll ever know, and I feel as if I see you in the wind that blows through wheat fields we pass through.  I long for days of peace when you and I will be able to be together again._

Then come home.  The words hung in Cersei’s throat as she read.  Don’t try and keep serving General Lee.  What more can you do?  You’re crippled now.  You’re useless.  You can’t fight.  What more can you do?  Come home to me.  

_Just as long as I can be useful—and I can be with tactics—I will stay North.  The war won’t last much longer.  We’ll take Washington soon, and when that’s done, Lincoln will have no choice but to surrender.  Until that day, sweet Cersei, know that I think of you always, and carry your photograph with me, and hope you look upon mine fondly._

He sat on the mantle—the photograph they’d had taken of him before he rode North.  Fine with his golden curls coming out from under his cap, and greys starched and perfect.  He looked intimidating, though she saw the hints of his smile at his eyes, at his lips and it wrenched at her heart to look at him, to look at his hand resting lazily on the sword at his waist.  She wondered what had become of the hand.  She wondered if someone had buried it, or burned it, or if it had been left to rot somewhere in Maryland.

_Yours, now, forever,_

_Jaime_

**Author's Note:**

> I feel it's worth mentioning that today is the 152nd anniversary of the battle of Antietam. I didn't intend to finish it today, but I did, so there we are.


End file.
